Innocent Graves

by Peter Robinson

  The whole article screamed out his guilt, of course, protested a miscarriage of justice, though the writer never said as much, not in so many words. Mostly, he just posed questions. Owen wondered if he should consider suing for libel. They were clever, though, these newspaper editors; they vetted everything before they printed it; they could afford a team of lawyers and they had the money put aside to finance large law suits. Still, it was worth considering.

  The pew in front of Owen creaked and brought him back to the present. He realized he was sweating, really sweating, and beginning to feel dizzy and nauseated, too. Churches weren’t supposed to be this hot. He hoped it wouldn’t go on much longer; he especially hoped that Daniel wouldn’t say anything about him.

  They sang a hymn he remembered hearing once at a wedding, then there were more readings, prayers. It seemed to be going on forever. Owen wanted to go to the toilet now, too, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  One of the readers mentioned seeing something “as in a mirror, dimly” and it took Owen a moment or two to realize this was the approved modern version of “through a glass darkly,” which he thought pretty much described his life. How could they, the English teacher in him wondered, utterly destroy one of the most resonant lines in the Bible, even if people did have trouble understanding what it meant. Since when had religion been about clear, literal, logical meaning anyway?

  Finally, it was over. People relaxed, stood, chatted, ambled towards the doors. Many of them glanced at him as they passed. One or two managed brief, flickering smiles. Some pointedly turned away, and others whispered to one another.

  Owen waited until most of them had gone. It had cooled down a little now, with the doors open and most people gone home. He still needed to go to the toilet, but not so urgently; he could wait now until he got to the vicarage. That was the plan: tea at the vicarage. He could hardly believe it.

  When there were only one or two stragglers left, Owen got up and walked to the door. Daniel and Rebecca stood there chatting with a parishioner. Rebecca put her hand on his arm to stop him going immediately outside, and smiled. Daniel shook his hand and introduced him to the old woman. She looked down at her sensible shoes, muttered some greeting or other, and scurried off. This would obviously take time.

  “Well,” said Daniel, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his moist brow. “I suppose we should be grateful Sir Geoffrey and his wife weren’t here.”

  Owen hadn’t even thought of that. If he had considered the mere possibility of bumping into Deborah Harrison’s parents, he wouldn’t have gone near the place.

  Daniel obviously saw the alarm in Owen’s expression because he reached out and touched his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It was insensitive of me to say that. It’s just that they used to attend. Anyway, come on, let’s go.”

  Owen walked outside with Daniel and Rebecca, pleased to be in the breeze again and glad to know he wasn’t entirely alone against the world. Then he saw four policemen hurrying down the tarmac path from the North Market Street gate. He told himself to run, but like Daniel and Rebecca, he simply froze to the spot.

  III

  “So, we meet again, Owen,” said Banks later that Sunday in an interview room at Eastvale Divisional Headquarters. “Nice of you to assist us with our inquiries.”

  Pierce shrugged. “I don’t think I have a lot of choice. Just for the record, I’m innocent this time, too. But I don’t suppose that matters to you, does it? You won’t believe me if it’s not what you want to hear. You didn’t last time.”

  Very little light filtered through the barred, grimy window and the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling was only thirty watts. There were three people in the room: Banks, Susan Gay and Owen Pierce.

  One of the public-spirited parishioners at St. Mary’s had heard about the Ellen Gilchrist murder on the news driving home after the morning service, and he had wasted no time in using his car-phone to inform the police that the man they wanted had been at St. Mary’s Church that very morning, and might still be there if they hurried. They did. And he was.

  In the distance, Banks could hear the mob chanting and shouting slogans outside the station. They were after Pierce’s blood. Word had leaked out that he had been taken in for questioning over the Ellen Gilchrist murder, and the public were very quick when it came to adding two and two and coming up with whatever number they wanted.

  People had started arriving shortly after the police delivered Pierce to the station, and the crowd had been growing ever since. Growing uglier, too. Banks feared he now had a lynch mob, and if Pierce took one step outside he’d be ripped to pieces. They would have to keep him in, if for no other reason than his own safety.

  Already a few spots of blood dotted the front of his white shirt, a result of his “resisting arrest,” according to the officers present; there was also a bruise forming just below his right eye.

  Banks started the tape recorders, issued the caution and gave the details of the interview time and those present.

  “They hit me, you know,” Pierce said, as soon as the tape was running. “The policemen who brought me here. As soon as they got me alone in the car they hit me. You can see the blood on my shirt.”

  “Do you want to press charges?”

  “No. What good would it do? I just want you to know, that’s all. I just want it on record.”

  “All right. Last night, Owen, about eleven o’clock, where were you?”

  “At home watching television.”

  “What were you watching?”

  “An old film on BBC.”

  “What film?”

  “Educating Rita.”

  “What time did it start?”

  “About half past ten.”

  “Until?”

  “I don’t know. I was tired. I fell asleep before the end.”

  “Do you usually do that? Start watching something and leave before the end?”

  “If I’m tired. As a matter of fact I fell asleep on the sofa, in front of the television. When I woke up there was nothing on the screen but snow.”

  “You didn’t check the time?”

  “No. Why should I? I wasn’t going anywhere. It must have been after two, though. The BBC usually closes down then.”

  His voice was flat, Banks noticed, responses automatic, almost as if he didn’t care what happened. But still the light burned deep in his eyes. Innocence? Or madness?

  “You see, Owen,” Banks went on steadily, “there was another young girl killed last night. A seventeen-year-old schoolgirl from Eastvale Comprehensive. It’s almost certain she was killed by the same person who killed Deborah Harrison-same method, same ritual elements-and we think you are that person.”

  “Ridiculous. I was watching television.”

  “Alone?”

  “I’m always alone these days. You’ve seen to that.”

  “So, can you see our problem, Owen? You were home, alone, watching an old film on television. Anyone could say that.”

  “But I’m not just anyone, am I?”

  “How’s the photography going, Owen?”

  “What?”

  “You’re a keen photographer, aren’t you? I was just asking how it was going.”

  “It isn’t. My house was broken into while I was on trial and the bastard who broke in killed my fish and smashed my cameras.”

  Banks paused. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I’ll bet you are.”

  Banks took out the plastic film container and held it up for Owen to see. “Know what that is?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Is it yours?”

  “How would I know. There are millions of them around.”

  “Thing is, Owen, we found this close to the body, and we found your fingerprints on it.”

  Owen seemed to turn rigid, as if all his muscles tightened at once. The blood drained from his face. “What?”

  “We found your fingerprints on it, Owen. Can you explain to us how they go
t there.”

  “I…I…” he started shaking his head slowly from side to side. “It must be mine.”

  “Speak up, Owen. What did you say?”

  “It must be mine.”

  “Any idea how it got out in the country near Skield?”

  “Skield?”

  “That’s right.”

  He shook his head. “I went up there the other day for a walk.”

  “We know,” said Susan Gay, speaking up for the first time. “We asked around the pub and the village, and several people told us they saw you in the area on Friday. They recognized you.”

  “Not surprising. Didn’t you know, I’m notorious?”

  “What were you doing, Owen?” Banks asked. “Reconnoitring? Checking out the location? Do you do a lot of advance preparation? Is that part of the fun?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I admit I was there. I went for a walk. But that’s the only time I’ve been.”

  “Is it, Owen? I’m trying to believe you, honest I am. I want to believe you. Ever since you got off, I’ve been telling people that maybe you didn’t do it, maybe the jury was right. But this looks bad. You’ve disappointed me.”

  “Well, excuse me.”

  Banks shifted position. These hard chairs made his back ache. “What is this thing you have for rummaging around in girls’ handbags or satchels?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Do you like to take souvenirs?”

  “Of what?”

  “Something to focus on, help you replay what you did?”

  “What did I do?”

  “What did you do, Owen? You tell me how you get your thrills.”

  Pierce said nothing. He seemed to shrink in his chair, his mouth clamped shut.

  “You can tell me, Owen,” Banks went on. “I want to know. I want to understand. But you have to help me. Do you masturbate afterwards, reliving what you’ve done? Or can’t you contain yourself? Do you come in your trousers while you’re strangling them? Help me, Owen. I want to know.”

  Still Pierce kept quiet. Banks shifted again. The chair creaked.

  “Why am I here?” Pierce asked.

  “You know that.”

  “It’s because you think I did it before, isn’t it?”

  “Did you, Owen?”

  “I got off.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “So I’d be a fool to admit it, wouldn’t I? Even if I had done it.”

  “Did you do it? Did you kill Deborah Harrison?”

  “No.”

  “Did you kill Ellen Gilchrist?”

  “No.”

  Banks sighed. “You’re not making it easy for us, Owen.”

  “I’m telling you the truth.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I am.”

  “Owen, you’re lying to us. You picked up Ellen Gilchrist on King Street last night. First you knocked her unconscious, then you drove her to Skield, where you dragged her a short distance up Witch Fell and strangled her with the strap of her handbag. Why won’t you tell me about it?”

  Pierce seemed agitated by the description of his crime, Banks noticed. Guilty conscience?

  “What was it like, Owen?” he pressed on. “Did she resist or did she just passively accept her fate. Know what I think? I think you’re a coward, Owen? First you strangled her from behind, so you didn’t have to look her in the eye. Then you lay her down on the grass and tore her clothes away. You imagined she was Michelle Chappel, didn’t you, and you were getting your own back, giving her what for. She didn’t have a chance. She was beyond resistance. But even then you couldn’t get it up, could you? You’re a coward, Owen. A coward and a pervert.”

  “No!” The suddenness with which Pierce shot forward and slammed his fist into the desk startled Banks. He saw Susan Gay stand and make towards the door for help, but waved her down.

  “Tell me, Owen,” he said. “Tell me how it happened.”

  Pierce flopped back in his chair again, as if the energy of his outburst had depleted his reserves. “I want my lawyer,” he said tiredly. “I want Wharton. I’m not saying another word. You people are destroying me. Get me Wharton. And either arrest me or I’m leaving right now.”

  Banks turned to Susan and raised his eyebrows, then sighed. “Very well, Owen,” he said. “If that’s the way you want it.”

  Chapter 18

  I

  By late Sunday evening, it was clear that the crowd wasn’t going to storm the Bastille of Eastvale Divisional HQ, and by early Monday morning, there were only a few diehards left.

  Banks turned his Walkman up loud as he passed the reporters by the front doors; Maria Callas drowned out all their questions. He said hello to Sergeant Rowe at the front desk, grabbed a coffee and headed upstairs. When he got to the CID offices, he took the earphones out and walked on tiptoe, listening for that snorting-bull sound that usually indicated the presence of Chief Constable Riddle.

  Silence-except for Susan Gay’s voice on the telephone, muffled behind her closed door.

  Dr. Glendenning’s post-mortem report on Ellen Gilchrist was waiting in Banks’s pigeon hole, along with a preliminary report from the forensic lab, who had put a rush on this one.

  In the office, Banks closed his door and pulled up the venetian blinds on yet another fine day. Much more of this and life would start to get boring, he reflected. Still, there was a bit of cloud gathering to the south, and the weather forecast threatened rain, even the possibility of a thunderstorm.

  He opened the window a couple of inches and watched the shopkeepers open their doors and roll down their awnings against the sunshine. Then he stretched until he felt something crack pleasantly in his back, and sat down to study the report. He tuned the portable radio he kept in his office to Radio 4 and listened to “Today” as he read.

  Glendenning had narrowed the time of death to between eleven and one, confirmed that the victim had been killed in the place where she was found, and matched the strap of her shoulder-bag to the weal in her throat.

  The wound behind her ear was round and smooth, he also confirmed, about an inch in diameter, and most likely delivered by a metal hammer-head.

  This time, unfortunately, there was no scratched tissue beneath her fingernails. In fact, her fingernails were so badly chewed they had been treated with some vile-tasting chemical to discourage her from biting them.

  According to the lab, though there was no blood other than the deceased’s at the scene, there were several hairs on her clothing that didn’t come from her body. That was understandable, given that she had been at a crowded dance. What was damning, though, was that four of the hairs matched those found on Deborah Harrison’s school blazer-the ones that had already also been tested against the sample Owen Pierce had given almost eight months ago.

  Hairs could be dodgy evidence, as Pierce’s trial had shown. Banks read through a fair bit of jargon about melanin and fragmented medullas, then considered the neutron activation analysis printout specifying the concentration of various elements in the hair, such as antimony, bromine, lanthanum, strontium and zinc.

  The lab would need another sample of the suspect’s hair, the report said, because the ratios of these elements could have changed slightly since the last sample was taken, but even at this point, it was 4500 to one against the hair originating from anyone but Pierce.

  Unfortunately, none of the hairs had follicular tissue adhering to their roots; in fact, there were no roots, so it was impossible to identify blood factors or carry out DNA analysis.

  As in the Deborah Harrison murder, the swabs showed no signs of semen in the mouth, vagina or anus, and there was no other evidence of sexual activity.

  But the hairs and the fingerprints Vic Manson had identified on the plastic film container would probably secure a conviction, Banks guessed. Pierce wasn’t going to slip through the cracks this time.

  In a way, Banks felt sad. He had almost convinced himself that Pierce had
been an innocent victim of the system and that Deborah’s killer was closer to home; now it looked as if he were wrong again.

  He tuned in to Radio 3-where “Composer of the Week” featured Gerald Finzi-and started making notes for the meeting he would soon be having with Stafford Oakes.

  Things started to get noisy at around eleven-thirty, with Pierce on his way to court for his remand hearing, the phone ringing off the hook and reporters pressing their faces at every window in the building. Banks decided it was time to sneak out by the side exit and take an early lunch.

  He opened the door and popped his head out to scan the corridor. Plenty of activity, but nobody was really paying him much attention. Instead of going the regular way, down to the front door, he tiptoed towards the fire exit, which came out on a narrow street opposite the Golden Grill, called Skinner’s Yard.

  He had hardly got to the end of the corridor, when he heard someone call out behind him. His heart lurched.

  “Chief Inspector?”

  Thank God it wasn’t Jimmy Riddle. He turned. It was DI Barry Stott, and he was looking troubled. “Barry. What is it? What can I do for you?”

  “Can I have a word? In private.”

  Banks glanced around to see if anyone else was watching them. No. The coast was clear. “Of course,” he said, putting his hand on Stott’s shoulder and guiding him towards the fire door. “Let’s go for a drink, shall we, and get away from the mêlée.”

  II

  It was a long time since Rebecca had been to talk to the angel, but that Monday she felt the need again. And this time she wasn’t drunk.

  As she turned off the tarmac path onto the gravel, she wondered how she could have been so wrong about Owen Pierce. She remembered how scared she was when she first saw him after his release, then how like a little boy lost he had been when he came to talk to her. When she had asked him the all-important question and he had said he would answer truthfully, she had believed him. Now it looked as if he had lied to her. How could she be sure of anything any more? Of anyone? Even Daniel?